As she knew would happen when she reached him, his soul leaped from the badger and returned to its human form. But when he tried to chain Owl, she chained him instead. And though he begged for her to set him free, she simply kissed him on his forehead and took flight as her animal self once more.
And thus it was that Trickster was bound for a full ten years, and no chaos disrupted the Witchlands. And thus it was that Moon Mother found her fear receded—though at the time, she did not understand why.
And, perhaps most important of all, thus it was that Little Sister Owl became known as the cleverest of the gods. She was the only one to ever best Trickster, you see, and some say that is why he fell in love with her—although that is another story for another night.
* * *
Iseult sucked in a breath. She couldn’t believe she’d made it to the end of the tale without her voice breaking or anyone waking up. She was thirsty; her throat hurt and her jaw ached. But at least Owl’s Threads had softened. Gone was the terror, gone was the white. Now, there was a grassy curiosity … and a darker determination.
She was not looking at Iseult, though, but at Aeduan and Evrane.
“What is it?” Iseult asked, earning a glare—as if Owl said, I am gagged, remember?
And Iseult almost smiled at that expression. That was the Owl she wanted to see. “Try to sleep,” she said. “I know it’s uncomfortable, but we don’t know what tomorrow will bring, and we must stay strong.”
Again, Owl glared, but this time her Threads were laced with a different sort of impatience. She stared pointedly at Aeduan and Evrane before dragging her hazel eyes back to Iseult’s. Twice she did this …
But whatever she wanted Iseult to see, Iseult wasn’t finding. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “You’ll have to tell me what’s bothering you when they remove the gag…” Iseult trailed off. Movement had caught her eye—a shape crawling across the floorboards. A trick of the night’s shadows, except now Owl was grunting behind her gag and straining against her bonds.
Then an image formed in Iseult’s mind. An image of Owl and Iseult roped to the cots. The weasel.
Iseult’s chest swelled. Her eyes swelled too as tears, hot and sandy, pushed at them from behind. But she made no sound, no movement. She simply watched as the weasel slunk around the stove past Corlant, past Aeduan … She paused at Evrane and sniffed.
“No,” Iseult whispered. “Leave her.” Beside her, Owl had gone completely still, completely silent. Her eyes bulged, her Threads stained yellow with worry.
“Leave her,” Iseult whispered again, shouting the command directly into the weasel’s mind.
The animal ignored her and with movements slow as tar, she began tampering with something on Evrane’s belt. Every pop of the fire sent Iseult’s heart into her mouth. Every flicker in Evrane’s Threads made her brace for a fight.
But the woman never awoke, and after an eternity of patience, the weasel finally had whatever it was she wanted. Then she was streaking away from the monk toward Iseult and Owl.
When she finally reached them, Iseult saw what the weasel had clutched in her tiny jaws: the Hell-Bard map.
Wicked Cousin, indeed, Iseult thought.
“Can you chew through these cords?” Iseult shook her wrists against their bindings. But the weasel ignored her, and with painfully slow movements, she unfurled the map and dug in her nose. Iseult squinted and strained. In the night, all the lines and dots morphed together.
The weasel chattered her teeth and shoved in her nose again—and this time, Iseult was able to make out what the map revealed.
Dots. Tens of them, right beside a familiar red X. The Hell-Bards from Praga had almost arrived, and for once, Iseult welcomed them. They would be her distracting right hand.
“How far?” Iseult asked, and the weasel replied with a vision of sheep pens.
They were almost outside then, which meant Iseult needed to move. Now.
The weasel sensed this and leaped up Iseult’s body. She chewed through the cords at Iseult’s wrist before scampering to Owl. Blood roared into Iseult’s deadened limbs while she clumsily swooped up the map. Seconds later, Owl was free too. “We must be quiet,” Iseult whispered before pulling the gag from Owl’s mouth.
Instantly the girl began coughing. She couldn’t help it—the sudden pale horror in her Threads made that clear. She also couldn’t stop it, even when Iseult clapped a rough hand across her mouth.
It was too late anyway. Across the room, Corlant’s Threads were changing. Melting out of sleep, quickly, quickly.
Two heartbeats later, he awoke.
Iseult kept her hand over Owl’s mouth, watching as Corlant slid into full awareness. “Hide,” she ordered the weasel while shoving Owl back onto the cot as if she’d never been unbound. Then she arranged her own limbs exactly as they had been.
Her arms throbbed. Her heart drummed. But she kept her body still as Corlant dragged himself off his cot … then across the room. His Threads brightened with each step. He hugged his robe against the cabin’s cold.
His eyes, shining in the shadows, lit on the gags strewn across the floor. He chuckled; orchid pleasure sprayed across his Threads. “Clever,” he murmured, snagging the dirty wool. “But useless.” He moved first for Iseult, long fingers extended. Aiming for her forehead, exactly as he’d touched the Herdwitch before. A warning and a reminder of what he could do.
His cold palm touched Iseult’s skin. Her body screamed, but she didn’t pull away. She didn’t move at all. As long as he thought her hands still bound, she had the advantage.
His free hand reached for her chin.
She kneed him in the groin. With all her strength, all her rage. Then her fingers launched for his eyes. In at the edges, out toward the ears.
Corlant had no time to scream or even double over before she had her thumbs behind his eyeballs. Hot, squishy—a move she’d learned but never used. In at the edges, out toward the ears. She yanked. Corlant screamed. But it was too late for him to stop Iseult. She had dug deep into the blood vessels and pulled with all her might.
The right eye came loose, popping free with a squelch Iseult felt more than heard over Corlant’s rising roars. The left eye resisted—so she left it there. Now was the time to run. Before Aeduan or Evrane could fully understand what was happening. Before the Purists outside, now rushing in, could reach her. And before, most dangerous of all, Corlant could try to use his magic.
As Corlant toppled toward the bunk, Owl scrabbled to the floor. “Follow the weasel,” Iseult ordered while she grabbed for Corlant’s pocket and the diary within. He could not fight back. His Threads seared with anger-tinged pain, and his hands clutched at his face.
His dangling eye glistened in the pale light.
Iseult found the diary, tore it out, and dove toward the door after Owl. The Purists barely registered her, for the Hell-Bards had arrived. Shouts and clashing weapons tore out. Threads churned and violence darkened each set. Nobody noticed Iseult or Owl hurrying by in the shadows.
Horses, the weasel seemed to say, sharing an image of Lord Storm Hound with his bindings already chewed free. He was by the well, a mere twenty paces away and cast in moonlight.
With her free hand, Iseult gripped Owl and sprinted toward that moonlight. Once to the shaggy steed, she hefted Owl onto the saddle, shoved the diary into her small arms, and finally hauled herself up behind. The weasel was already halfway up Iseult’s body, already looped around Iseult’s neck by the time she dug her heels into Lord Storm Hound’s body.